Occasionally there would be a vast rustling like the sound of wind in a forest, as the holders of librettos turned the leaves simultaneously.
The orchestra thundered; the French horns snarling, the first violins wailing in unison, while all the bows went up and down together like parts of a well-regulated machine; the kettle-drums rolled sonorously at exact intervals, and now and then one heard the tinkling of the harp like the pattering of raindrops between peals of thunder.

The leader swayed from side to side in his place, beating time with his baton, his hand, and his head.
On the stage itself the act was drawing to a close.

There had just been a duel.

The baritone lay stretched upon the floor at left centre, his sword fallen at some paces from him.

On the left of the scene, front, stood the tenor who had killed him, singing in his highest register, very red in the face, continually striking his hand upon his breast and pointing with his sword toward his fallen enemy.